


The Fisherman and His Catch

by AVegetarianCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fishing Metaphors, Flirting, M/M, Post-Finale, Will Graham's naked butt as bait, come on Hannibal get on that, who wouldn't bite?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:56:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVegetarianCannibal/pseuds/AVegetarianCannibal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is baiting Hannibal. Hannibal knows it, and he loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fisherman and His Catch

It doesn't take Hannibal long to notice that Will is partial to walking around their little seaside cottage in scant clothing. It takes him somewhat longer to realize Will might be doing it for his benefit.

Once he realizes that, he also sees that the more he ignores the bait being dangled in front of him, the more enticing the fisherman will endeavor to make it.

For example, it's a late Sunday afternoon in September when Will joins him on the deck overlooking the beach and casually peels off his sweater. He glances back at Hannibal, who is only watching him in the periphery of his vision, and then takes off his undershirt, too.

"Bit chilly for that, isn't it?" Hannibal asks.

"The sun is nice," Will says. "I want to enjoy it while we still have it."

Hannibal keeps his eyes on his book and pretends to read, and says nothing else.

The next morning, Will pads into the kitchen in just his boxer shorts and makes a show of stretching against the counter where Hannibal is making their coffee.

"My shoulder feels a bit stiff," Will says, rolling it and grunting with discomfort.

"Probably because you paraded around half naked in the cold yesterday," Hannibal says, handing him his mug.

Two days later, Will walks out onto the beach wearing white linen trousers, the drawstring tied loose enough to let the waistband sit very low on his hips. It sits lower still when Will bends over to pick up something from the sand.

"I'm collecting shells," he calls out, "for the centerpiece."

He grins and holds one up, as if Hannibal could see it from the deck nearly 30 feet away.

What Hannibal can see, though, is that Will is wearing nothing under those thin white trousers, allowing the dark thicket of his public hair to stand out in shadowy relief.

"See if you can find any cone snail shells," Hannibal calls back. "And don't stay out in the cold too long, or your shoulder will pay for it."

Will's posture slumps slightly, showing his defeat.

* * *

 

That night, Will comes marching into the den, hair and skin dripping wet, a washcloth held over his genitals--just barely. "Hannibal, where are all the towels?"

"In the dryer," Hannibal says, barely looking up from his tablet. "Exactly where you left them this morning."

Will's eyes flash with anger and he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but then his expression turns sheepish. "Was it my turn to fold?"

"I believe our agreement was that I do all the pressing this week and you do all the folding," Hannibal says.

"I'm sorry," Will says. "I guess I've had a lot on my mind lately."

"Anything you'd like to talk about?"

"N-no, not really. I guess I just..." Will gives up and sighs heavily. "Sorry about that."

Then he turns to go, giving Hannibal an unfettered view of his bare buttocks, rosy from the heat of his shower and still glistening wet. A hint of dark hair peeks out of the top of the cleft, sparser than the ample growth on his sturdily built thighs, but no less enticing.

Hannibal forgets to breathe until he's gone lightheaded.

The next night--actually sometime between night and dawn--Hannibal wakes to a pained groan emanating from Will's bedroom. Of course, he knows instantly what that sound means, even if Will is putting more emphasis on the pain side of things to play up his anguish. Another groan, followed by a drawn-out whimper.

Hannibal decides to play along.

When he makes his way down the hall, Hannibal finds Will's door ajar. The groaning grows louder and more urgent, now accompanied by vigorous thrashing against the bed.

"Are you all right?" Hannibal asks, pushing the door wide open.

Will lies nude and belly-down on top of the sheets, hips raised up off the bed, forehead pushed against his pillow. His hands are shoved between his thighs, where he has been rutting against them. His skin looks Shiva-blue and luminous in the starlight that streams through the window. The scent of him fills the room like holy incense.

Hannibal processes all of this in an instant and tucks it away for later.

Will gasps and scrambles to cover his body with a sheet, and doesn't do a very good job of it. His erection is plainly obvious under the cloth, but Hannibal keeps his eyes averted.

"What are you doing in here?" Will asks breathlessly.

"I heard you cry out," Hannibal says. "My apologies--the door was open, so I came in. I thought you were in pain."

Will pushes the sweat-soaked hair off his forehead and lies back down, stretching out on his side so that he faces Hannibal. He takes a breath, and for a moment Hannibal think he might finally give him some spoken invitation, some uttered admission. Instead, he just says, "Oh."

"I'll see you for breakfast," Hannibal says, ducking out of the room. “Goodnight, again.”

He closes the door between them.

The next few mornings, Will takes a fishing rod and tackle out to the pier down the beach.

Each morning, Hannibal packs him a thermos of piping hot coffee and buttermilk biscuits to take for his breakfast. Even though he knows Will is fated to return empty-handed in a few hours, Hannibal always begins prepping for a fish dinner and never acts disappointed when his prediction bears out.

On the fourth morning, Will pauses by the back door. "I'm just not having any luck out there," he says.

Hannibal smiles at him as he slices fresh lemons. "Perhaps something will bite today."

"The thing is, I _know_ what I'm doing in a river or a lake,” Will says. “Give me a pond, and I'll get you a fish. But the ocean...is kind of new for me. I don't really know what I'm doing."

“Too bad you can’t just ask the fish,” Hannibal says.

Will shifts his weight nervously and looks back at him for a long time. He drawls out a slow, “Yeah...”

Hannibal takes pity on him, a bit. “I’m not a fish, Will.”

Will seems to mull that over before leaving without saying anything else.

An hour or so later, he returns from the pier as empty-handed as always. He leans the fishing rod against the wall and ignores it when it slides to the floor. Without preamble or greeting, he fixes Hannibal with an accusing glare and announces, "You kissed me. You dragged us out of the ocean and you _kissed_ me."

Hannibal blinks at him. "Did I?"

"Oh, don't pretend like you don't remember or that I--that I _imagined_ it," Will huffs.

Hannibal sets down the herb snips he'd been using to prep the tarragon for Will's nonexistent catch. "Yes, I did kiss you," he says. "I apologize."

Will stares at him as if he's grown a second head. "Why in hell are you apologizing?"

"I thought I was dying," Hannibal said. "I wanted the last breath on my lips to be yours. I didn’t ask if you wanted the same."

Will rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I stopped you!”

“You _were_ barely conscious,” Hannibal reminds him.

At first, Will folds his arms over his chest, then plants his hands on his hips as if he can't quite decide how to stand. He finally settles on making a generally agitated gesture. "Well, why didn't you kiss me again when I _was_ conscious?"

"I felt it was your move to make," Hannibal says with a shrug.

"I've _been_ making a move!" Will all but shouts. "For months, off and on! What do you think I've been _doing_ , the way I’ve been wiggling my bare ass at you all over the place like a baboon in heat!"

"You were baiting me," Hannibal says evenly, "into making the move for you."

Will's mouth falls open without words.

"If you want something from me--from _us_ ," Hannibal says, "then you're going to have to show me yourself."

For a long time, Hannibal thinks Will won't work up the courage, and then he thinks how odd it is that he would have to work up the courage when he knows very well he won't be rejected. Yet, somehow he's less confident to stride across the kitchen floor than he was to close the distance between his knife and the Dragon's belly.

"I want," Will says, and in lieu of finishing that sentence marches over to Hannibal.

Hannibal steels himself to be grabbed, scooped up, shoved or pulled however Will sees fit to bring their mouths together. Instead, Will takes his face in his hands and draws his thumbs over Hannibal's cheekbones, all while peering so intently at him that Hannibal can picture that gaze upsetting the very quantum energy of his atoms. He buzzes on a fundamental level, like particles entangled with one another across space and time.

Then Will tilts his head up and very studiously traces the entire outline of Hannibal's lips with his own. The contact is minimal--nearly nonexistent. It is as sweet as it is cruel, chaste and seductive, both. Will makes the softest sigh that ends with an even softer whimper.

Hannibal wraps an arm around Will's waist and pulls him roughly to his body. He kisses Will properly, gets his other hand in that mussed hair and holds on tight.

He feels Will smiling and pulls back just enough to see him on the verge of laughing.

"Caught you," Will says. "Hook, line, and sinker."

Hannibal gapes at him. "You mean--"

"This _is_ my move," Will says. " _All_ of this has been my move."

"You mean all that about not knowing how to fish in the ocean," Hannibal says, "that which I took to be a metaphor for not knowing how to flirt with a man..."

"That _was_ me flirting," Will admits, looking so rudely pleased with himself Hannibal would have considered it a capital offense coming from anyone else. “I know how much you love metaphors.”

Hannibal thinks about protesting, but Will is moving toward him again, nuzzling along his jaw and down to kiss his throat.

He thinks perhaps it's good to be caught, when the bait is this worthwhile, and the fisherman in question is so very skilled...


End file.
